Forgiving Rome

by Clay Ferrill

  Luigi’s the Raphael expert anyway and he’s really fucking smart. Then we’ll see what this Divine Forgiveness thing is about. Why the church is essentially seeking forgiveness from itself. There just has to be more data. It still isn’t making sense. There’s too much information missing.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Forgiveness

  I had the door open already as the stair car approached. It slowed too much so I just made the leap and sprinted down the stairs 3 at a time. To hear Adam and Siren retell it later, I looked like I was floating gracefully. I had my cassock unbuttoned and it floated behind me making me just look graceful only. What they heard on the other hand, was a six-foot-half 200-pound man pounding down metal steps hard. I didn’t even look back or say good-bye. It just didn’t feel like I needed to. If I see them again, I will love that, truly. If I don’t see them again, then it’s God’s will. The car was waiting for me. I climbed in and Luigi was in the seat next to me.

  Across from us, “Cardinal Mosconi? Ciao bella! Luigi.” I looked back and forth between the two and Luigi held out his hand. “Give him the iPad Cole. He has a file to read. You’ve already read yours.” He winked at me. I fished it out of my satchel and handed it to him. He looked up at me as he accepted it and I smiled quickly before his eyes could look away again. I watched as he tapped on it twice and then handed it back to me for my passcode. “1-2-3-4-5-6” and he laughed and keyed it in. I reached over “here. Needs my thumb.” Cardinal Mosconi spoke up then and said “his thumb will access his section of the records only. Not everything at once as the data is … possibly overwhelming. His Holiness’s request.”

  The reader turned green under his thumb. He rose and sat closer to me and shared the iPad. I looked across the car to the Cardinal and his eyes were closed. I rested my lips against his head as the first document opened. Again, the same page one as mine. I don’t know how his mind works, probably not like mine because mine is full of genetic sciences data and his, beauty and art. I smell his hair and tighten my arm over his shoulder. He finished reading the page and swiped right. The next image was a Leonardo da Vinci etching of the artist Raphael. The intricacy of the thing was amazing to the eye. The lines and grooves so straight. Many of the images of Raphael himself have been self-portraits. He was a beaten down man. I think then as I close my eyes of his timeline alongside Giuseppe’s, the line of his life terminating. I opened my eyes after seeing them entwined in my mind in that past so long ago. The occasionally intertwined lines of the four of them, the men and their mother. Her line, The Grand Marquise, is lavender in my mind and I don’t know why, but the descriptions of her renowned beauty I’d read about made me associate that color with her.

  Luigi’s hand laid flat against the screen and he lifted his head. The old Cardinal was now sleeping, even as the car was turning into the boulevard that would deliver us down a long, guarded ramp beneath The Vatican to a private entrance meant for visiting dignitaries only, usually. The number of Swiss Guards here is, well, I haven’t seen this many gathered on duty before. Luigi’s eyes lift from the iPad and he pointed down to it. The image had finished painting slowly and the colors had richly filled in. Closer to the finished painting da Vinci had also painted of him. It says right there that these are the only known single painting and single etching completed by such a master artist of another master artist, and therefore, the most accurate image of Raphael even possible.

  I see drops hit the screen and I know he’s crying. He’s tapping through hyperlinks to all the documents in the lifetime timeline of the master Raphael. All of it previously missing in time. Not only is it his field of study, it has been his entire life’s passion. The image now paints every screen he looks at as the car slowed under a canopy of glowing lights. Two Swiss Guards on either side, both sides of the glass doors. I tap Luigi on the shoulder as the Cardinal wakes up and snorted and realizing where he was he started gathering his robes to climb out. Old guy, so this was taking a while. I tried helping but he swatted my hand away and then smiled playfully. The door opened and he got out first, perched at the door like he was ready to spring.

  He straightened his body slowly and an electric cart pulled up. He got in with a single step and it drove off as I was straightening up and stepping away so Luigi could get out. I saw my reflection in the big glass door, trimmed in gold, awful. I rolled my eyes. The gilding of this place on my last nerve. My cassock is unbuttoned and I have on the sweat-stained black nylon body skin and my tactical pants and tactical boots. I look like a fucking zombie in the reflection against all that black. “We need to shower and change clothes Luigi. I don’t have another cassock so I’ll be wearing this one again. Meet me at my place in half an hour?” He leaned in like he was going to get close and even if the guards don’t directly look at you, doesn’t mean they can’t see you. I smiled and shook my head no. I held out my hand for the iPad and he pulled it to his chest. “Fucking get your own” and darted off down an alley that leads to more, less formal entries than this grand crap. Gold-framed doors? The wealth of this place is just astonishing. Never sits well with me. I walk toward them just to see what happens. The two guards on the outside opened the first set, both huge-ass doors, and then when I was in the formal vestibule, the other doors opened, but not until the first set had completely closed and locked. Strangely formal. I smiled at them even though they’re not allowed to make eye contact with anyone. Why the fuck is that, exactly?

  Two unfamiliar turns and a reverse got me back to my apartment fast enough. I don’t tend to shuffle my feet along. I span over a yard in one gate usually. I don’t walk quietly usually and I never tip-toe. I rounded the corner as a woman with a cart was pulling the door closed. I smiled at her, assuming she’d cleaned my room and pressed my thumb in the reader. The door popped open and I stepped inside and shut the door. On the small round table was a very large bowl of oranges, which I do really love. Very kind. I shrugged off the cassock and reached into the closet for a hanger finding it full of clothes. Not cassocks. I dropped the cassock to the floor and starting bringing the hangers out. Pushing the two large doors back to the cabinet, there are rows of t-shirts and underwear? Socks in a variety of grays and blacks. All of it. Very fine clothing.

  I turn on the overhead light and see it there on the bed. My iPad? Luigi had it. “Luigi? Are you here?” Nothing. Hmmm. I peel off my clothes as quickly as possible and head into the shower to de-stink. I put the shirt in the laundry basket and tucked it underneath so I don’t grab it out again. I do like how it feels to wear it though, smelly or not.

  I lathered up quickly and rinsed off. I stood in front of the sink and trimmed and then shaved my face clean. Scruffy looks good once in a while, and I hate shaving, but I also like my face this way. I have flawless skin. No blemishes at all. When I don’t have a beard growing on my face in some form, my face almost glows otherwise. I feel like glowing. I put more eye drops in. Burns like the fucking coffee lava. I use the last of the small tube of toothpaste. I paused there looking in my reflection. I look normal enough. But that will soon change. Tomorrow. I lowered my head and rubbed my temple and brushed my teeth.

  Opening the cabinet doors again I took down the first suit. Black. No big surprise there. I laid it on the bed and looked at the shirts hanging and chose a pale gray one. I don’t like the pink one and the rest of them are white. I look over at the stack of t-shirts and slid out pale green one. The fabric of it was so silky. I sniffed it and then shook it out and pulled it over my head and shoulders. I pulled it down. It fit me exactly perfectly. The sleeves came down almost to my elbows and didn’t constrict my arm muscles like the dirty black one I was seriously contemplating just showering in to clean it. Wear that. Stepping to the side I slid open the drawer and there’s a stack of evil jockstraps from hell. I slide the drawer closed and pull down a pair of black underwear and step into them.

  The mirrors on the backs of the two open doors gives me perhaps the best view of my body that I’ve ever actually see
n with my eyes. I adjust myself into the soft pouch. Looking at how the underwear snug and smooth my crotch, which is good because I do hang a little heavy so some kind of restraint is probably a good idea. I like this trunk underwear just fine. Comfortable. I put on a pair of socks and reached for the suit. The feel of the weight of this suit is substantial. I figure out how to free the slacks and lay the jacket down on the bed. I pull the slacks up over my legs and, wow, this feels way better than the fine cotton serwal, the heaviness of the thobe and bisht robes. I tuck the t-shirt in and close the clasp.

  I open the door wider and see two rows of shoes. I choose the black Ferragamo loafers and stepped into them. Oh wow. I look down at my feet, which have been in tactical boots for the past six days. I had no idea shoes could be this comfortable. The matching belt had unfurled when I removed the shoes so I put it on. Looking at my watch, he’d be here any minute now. I lifted the jacket and walked into the bathroom while putting it on. I ran my fingers through my almost dry hair and just rubbed it. It was sticking up all weird so I smoothed it back with a little bit of water and tried to smash it back down. Kind of worked.

  I’ve only ever seen myself in a cassock before. It’s all I was provided as clothing. The tactical gear Adam had insisted upon. The cup too. I smoothed the lapels and drew the top button closed. As I was walking back to look in the taller mirror the light knock at the door. I opened it and Luigi came into the room and stopped to look at how I was dressed. “My cassocks were gone too. Oh my God, Cole. There were suits there instead, you too? Wow. Look at you.” I walked up closer and bent forward to his face, on his level. “Kiss me sweetly, Luigi.” He pressed into my face and his arms came up around my neck. I rested my forehead on his shoulder. “You smell really good.”

  He looked very scholarly without the cassock, which had somehow simpled him before. Looks way more intelligent this way. He was wearing blue jeans with only a few paint smudges showing, a pale-yellow cotton shirt, button-down. His jacket looked to be a dark gray tweed with dark brown leather patches at the elbows. Old maybe. My guess was this had been his fathers at one time. His dripping wet hair knotted with a thin leather rope. His shoe boots were cleaned well, but I could see the oil stains from removed paint. Adorable. “Did you read any more of your file Luigi?” He looked up at me after fidgeting with the sleeves of his jacket. He nodded yes. “How much of it did you get through?” Smiling he almost whispered too low for me to hear. “All of it.” As I stood there looking at him to discern how he was feeling about what he learned, he started and stopped a few times like he was having trouble figuring something out.

  “Tell me. Just speak words. We can worry about unscrambling them later. Just let it out. Tell me.” He sat down on the bed and he just started where we had left off and filled me in on what he had read about Raphael’s life. “It’s all actually true. What I think actually happened, happened. I couldn’t prove it before because all of these documents that I’m looking at don’t exist anywhere in known record. But they’re authentic and all dated. His friend and lover’s name was Giuseppe, but he called him Archy.”

  He paused and looked into my eyes, “His full name was …”

  “Giuseppe Allard Archambault, Grand Marquis de Orleans” interrupting him. I held out my hand for the iPad. Just as he was reaching for it, it started beeping. Luigi stood up. “We have to go. Five minutes. Is it far?” I shook my head no “three flights straight down.” He looked up at me as he held my arms and stood on his toes. He pushed his lips against mine and my arms wrapped around his and lifted him off the floor. I just sucked on his face. I could just eat this man up.

  Dropping him to the floor he picked up the iPad and handed it to me. As I opened the door and he walked past me, keying up my document’s second page, I pressed my thumb into the reader. The image of The Stallion of God painted the screen. I handed it back to him and took his free hand and led him to the staircase while he gazed down dumbfounded at the screen. Speechless. In the very first paragraph there it says clearly that I am the exact genetic copy of Giuseppe. He just kept looking back and forth between the screen and my face with an awed look on his face. When we came down the last flight of stairs into the chill air of the vaults, there were two Swiss Guards stationed at the door to the anti-room where I am now, finally, planning to return the iPad I took and shouldn’t have. The door to the room was open. I walked in first.

  Seated at a very elegant looking dark ebony polished wood table, were His Holiness, the Vatican Archivist standing straight and smiling at me, his bursitis much improved already, and Cardinal Mosconi, who stayed seated. His Holiness stood as we walked in. The Swiss Guard pulled the door closed and the glass walls instantly went opaque gray and the lights in the room dimmed. With my hand on his shoulder I guided Luigi to a chair and took the one next to him directly across from His Holiness. A dark figure stepped out from the corner and busied filling water glasses with lemon water, dispensing a fresh slice in each glass. I just looked around at the others seated and laid my hand on Luigi’s thigh underneath the table and patted it twice. Everyone was silent. His Holiness rose again with his rosary dangling and gave a very moving prayer that I could not understand one word of. Luigi either, apparently. Latin. He sat down and pulled angrily at his long robes, too heavy for his body.

  “Rubio you may leave us now. I’ll ring if you’re needed. Thank you, my son.” We all waited while he left the room and the door was again closed. “I have wanted to speak with you two alone so very much. I hope that spending these few minutes in conversation with me will bring your hearts joy … that you find peace in it as men. As I myself am just a man. That is my intention in speaking to you. As a man. To bring you peace only. And to restore some things to you that have been cruelly taken. I know you are already forgiven any indiscretions or violations of church law. I know this because I forgive you myself in every prayer that leaves my lips these past months. I saw the recognition on your expression when you examined The Stallion in Raphael’s painting upstairs, Cole. I have sent you the necessary documents because, yes, you are in fact his genetic exact as you suspected. I saw that realization on your face. We have cameras everywhere here, most of them very well hidden.”

  He adjusted himself in the grand chair likely brought in here specially for him. I am curious about this man and how many times he’s mentioned to us now that he is just a man. Obsessed with it almost. There has to be a point to why we’re here. In my mind of winding timelines, this isn’t making sense. Yet. We’re not here, obviously, to be punished or scolded. Who we are as priests now is in conflict with church doctrine. I spoke. “I will only know for a few more hours Your Holiness. Knowing who my genetic original was not and is not really a burden to me in any way. I assure you.”

  “I was getting it off my chest, Cole, that is all. I felt it was important for you to know that because I believe in my heart and soul that it is God’s will that you know it. The Council, however, feels differently and wanted you kept in the dark, so to speak. It really doesn’t matter, you’re right. I can see that in your expression right now. You know Cole, I think it was the expressions you made back to the brother nurturing you to life while you were breaching. Miraculous. That alone convinced me he had finally done it. But you’re right. Doesn’t matter, really, but that was, Cole, in fact, young artist Raphael’s friend and lover in that painting. You’re living proof of it.” He paused and quickly grabbed his glass of water. Effervescent, awful, but at least lemon flavored.

  “They were each other’s entire existences. We have the detailed diaries of their mothers, letters from the mothers to both of them, him and him to them, their letters to one another profession their undying love for one another. Small paintings and things that Raphael had sent to her over the many years he toiled away, here, inside these walls. Now undiscovered priceless works of art. I am sorry to say that he was trapped in servitude by the promise of his dead father for an entire decade. They were in love as men. They were human men.” He look
ed at me carefully, judging me almost. “Please go on Your Holiness. There’s more.” It’s almost like you could see in his expression that he was mustering something up inside to be able to continue where he left off. He started it, not me. When the Pope of Rome speaks, you listen. He took a deep breath.

  “The church killed that young man in the painting and then chopped off his head on Pope Leo X’s papal order. Such unspeakable cruelty to a young artist providing such gifts, his written intention - to punish the artist. Raphael had been the target for a senseless act of revenge. In Pope Leo’s personal papers, it was evident that in his youth he had tried to court Raphaello’s mother shortly after she married his father. After she was already married. She had rebuked his advances of course, a distant Medici cousin herself, which is why he grasped at her that way. The other half of the Medici clan she belonged to had separated in feud over money and lands north of Florence. Marrying her would have stitched the bloodlines back together neatly. But she refused him and never saw him again.” He took another long pull of water and sat the glass down on the solid gold coaster. I rolled my eyes.

  “Raphael, as we continue to enjoy the magic of the gifts he gave to us, still today, over 400 years after his death, died a pauper. The Church also killed his livelihood as an artist when they took the life of his friend, lover, and financial benefactor. His sole means of support in life. The Stallion depicted in the painting. The Catholic Church owes you, my son, The Stallion. Your name in that life, your first, was Giuseppe Allard Archambault, Marquis de Orleans. Your mother a distant French Medici cousin. The great uncle of young Raphael’s lover, Giuseppe, a Medici in lineage himself and already of vast wealth, became later, Pope Leo the fifth”. He paused a long moment to let us assimilate the information.